


Mea-culpa

by pianochic90



Category: Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 11:51:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6194087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pianochic90/pseuds/pianochic90
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU take/timeline of Atton's confession, because it never seemed to have the depth, pain, or ramifications it should have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Meetra Surik peeled off the long Jedi outer-robe as she strode into her rented living quarters. The day had been exhausting. She desperately needed to meditate. Or eat. The silhouette of a dark figure drew her up short. _Definitely meditate. Her mind must be dangerously clouded if she’d missed the warning of another presence in the room._  
The tall man leaning against her window was no threat. Rather, he held a close place in her heart as her first companion, both on this mission and in her journey back to the force. Over the last several months he’d become a close confidant and friend, as well as a skilled force user.  
“What's wrong, Atton?” she asked as she strode to the window. “You seem troubled.”  
Atton Rand rested his head against his clenched fist and peered out into the darkness, “I cannot be a Jedi, Exile.”  
Meetra sighed as she placed a comforting hand on her friend’s shoulder. “The path towards the light is difficult, but you are meant for it, Atton. I've taught you everything I can.”  
“I cannot...because of what I was. Because of what I've done.”  
She paused, Atton rarely spoke of his past, of the years before fate had placed them together on the Peragus mining station. The only information he’d given was of a Jedi who'd opened his mind to the force before sacrificing herself to save him.  
“There is much forgiveness to be had, my friend, but you need none from me. Your actions over these past few months have proven that.”  
“You don't know what I've done.”  
“Let me share this burden, you shouldn't carry it alone.”  
Atton raised his head and met her gaze, anguish apparent in his eyes. “I can’t speak it out loud,” he whispered, “don't make me reveal my evil to you. I can't bear it.”  
Meetra placed both hands gently on his shoulders as her voice rang out strong and clear, “since we met you've kept your mind guarded, closed off so I can’t see. This ability is rare and the very reason I believed you could know the force. But it's time to let me in Atton. To let me know your thoughts and help carry your secrets.”  
A single tear trailed down his jaw as Atton closed his eyes in tired defeat, “please don't hate me, Exile.”  
“I could never hate you, my friend.”  
Meetra rested her forehead against his and reached out with her mind.

 _Darkness. Thick smoke stung her eyes and filled her lungs, threatening to suffocate. Pain, sharp and devastating. A thousand piercing screams so loud she felt as if she were drowning._  
_Silence. Sharp in its contrast. Deep and painful. She knew this silence, a familiar yet hated companion. Neither light, nor dark, simply...absent.  
_ _Fire burned her hands and face as she choked on the stench. Hands reached for her, grasping at her clothing as she crawled through the bodies. Her soul tore apart piece by piece until she was empty. She was nothing._

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Atton sat in the darkness, his back pressed to the cold wall. Chilled hands shook as he ran them through his hair. The air around him seemed stale and a slight sourness drifted from the corner where the contents of his stomach lay. Both suns had long since set and the only light in the room was a pale artificial glow that crept under the closed door. He had no idea how long he’d been sitting there, but it felt an eternity.  
He'd briefly considered running, signing onto the first ship that could get him halfway across the galaxy, but that thought disappeared hours ago. Every future he could imagine seemed empty now, worthless without the exile - his exile. He didn’t know what would happen when Meetra came back, but he was willing to stay and beg for forgiveness.

_The instant her head touched his, Atton felt pure hatred. Emotions he’d buried deep rose up inside him, threatening to consume him, then suddenly tore from his grasp as darkness drained from his soul._  
_His eyes cleared and he saw Meetra, back arched in agony, wailing in grief and pain. Her shoulders shook and her knees buckled. Atton reached out to catch her as she collapsed to her knees. Frantic, he caressed her face and smoothed her hair. In desperation he called her name, trying to pull her back from the void, but she was still. Her body was rigid, her eyes open but unseeing._  
_Atton stumbled to the corner and heaved, choking as bile rose up in his throat. His vision doubled as the room spun violently. What had he done? Collapsing against the wall for support, he cradled his head in his hands.  
_ _Moments later, Meetra rose to her feet. Her shoulders seemed relaxed, but he couldn’t see her face. She refused to look at him as she crossed to the door and latched it softly behind her._

Atton closed his eyes against the memory and tried to calm the panic that clawed at his throat, threatening to break him. Showing Meetra who he was had been the worst mistake of his life.

 

* * *

 

The Exile sat in complete darkness, blocking out all sounds, allowing her force sensitivity to stretch out around her. The panic, while sharp and painful, had been momentary. Now she concentrated on extracting every last detail from the memories she now held.  
Such loss, such horror. So many lives that had channeled the Force, snuffed out by this man. Her reaction had been violent and involuntary. The memories, while tragic, wouldn’t have affected another Jedi in the same way. But she was different, perfectly molded to understand the situation. The void caused by Atton was similar to the void she’d felt 10 years ago. The instant darkness, empty and corrupt. Unnatural. Returning to that void left her reeling, gasping for air.  
Now she was calm, settled. Her once fragile mind was strong. Strong enough to distinguish between her memories and his. Strong enough to place each in a separate compartment free from the other. Strong enough to sift through the new information without reaction.  
Hours passed as she held up each death, each betrayal, and examined it. She mourned every lost life individually before surrendering them to the force and moving on to the next one.  
Pausing in her task, she briefly allowed her mind to reach out, searching for Atton’s thoughts. Silence. His thoughts were guarded now. Either that or he’d already run.  
That idea hit Meetra like a physical blow. Atton was an important part of her life now. She hadn’t realized how deep he’d entwined his life with hers until she imagined losing him. Wave after wave of emotion washed over her. Horror at who he'd been warred with respect for who he was now. The darkness that permeated his memories strained at the light that flowed from his recent actions.  
The Exile pressed a hand to her aching head. Slowly, methodically, she purged her thoughts. For ten long years the Jedi Code had sustained her. Without the Force, the Code was just a meaningless shell, and yet she’d clung to it. Held it to her heart as a talisman, a protection against complete and utter madness.  
She recited it now, allowing its warmth to both empty her mind and fill her soul. A warmth that had been missing from her meditations for so many years.

 


	3. Chapter 3

“So the fool is more dangerous than we thought,” the gravely voice echoed in the darkness.  
Meetra shifted slowly, pulling herself from the forced emptiness. Her meditations long over, she’d been content to sit in silence, enjoying the subtle currents around her as one would the breeze against one’s face. For a few moments she’d been content, free of the heavy burden she’d elected to bear.  
“I wondered when you’d come.”  
“A horrifying memory. The pain of which you should not have had to endure. The smuggler is indeed selfish to put that on you.”  
“No, he didn’t-” Meetra sighed, uncrossing her legs so she could lean back against the wall, shoulders slumping in exhaustion. “Did you know?”  
A brief pause held in the air as the hooded figure stepped into view.  
The old woman shrugged, blank eyes fixed at the wall above her, “he is very skilled at covering his thoughts. Perhaps the forced brevity and shallow proclivities were more a mask than we realized.”  
“I don’t regret our friendship, even after knowing this.”  
“Regret? How narrow minded your view is. How has this revelation changed your purpose? How are the deaths suffered at his hand different from those committed by yours? The pawns in play are neither black nor white. The sides more aligned than they would care to admit.”  
Meetra blinked slowly, trying to extract hidden meaning from Kreia’s words. Every statement the woman had made since they’d met seemed a riddle, and this one was no different.  
Her mentor stepped closer, a slight intensity glowing in the faded eyes, “but perhaps his confession has served a greater purpose. This attachment you’ve formed is dangerous, short-sighted, and anything that aids in severing that is necessary.”  
“I will not cut myself off from my friends. That is foolishness.”  
“The help of your pawns is all very well when needed, but you place too much stock in their thoughts, in their opinions. They would follow you blindly, they cannot help it.”  
Surik straightened, rising to her feet, “these ‘pawns’ as you call them have set aside their own lives to assist me.” Frustration tightened in her chest and tinged her words, “they’ve sacrificed. The _least_ I can do is value them. Trust them! They do not follow me blindly, as you so enjoy claiming, they can see a greater purpose in my fight. And they grow in the force every day, if nothing else _that_ is a worthy cause.”  
“You will never understand the power you have over others, though perhaps that is for the best. _I_ will not respect them, nor do I value them beyond the aid they offer.” The old woman chuckled, pulling her dark robe more tightly around her as she stepped back into the darkness, “have care where you place your trust. Clumsy hands have a habit of breaking things.”

 

* * *

 

Harsh light from the entrance of the shabby apartment building stung her eyes as Meetra approached. She groaned, rubbing them tiredly. The extensive meditation hadn’t refreshed her as thoroughly as usual. Exhaustion pressed at her mind and she struggled to hold it at bay. Their time on Nar Shaddaa was drawing to a close. Zez-Kai Ell had agreed to go to Dantooine and wait for her return. Only one Jedi Master remained.  
She needed to sleep.  
The Exile could feel her friend’s nervous energy as she stepped to the door. There was no self assurance, no meaningless drivel masking his fear. _Fear._ A quality she’d never associated with Atton before. Pity welled in her chest, warring with the overwhelming distrust that wanted to consume her.  
Meetra reached out to touch his mind once more, yearning for further insight.  
Pain lanced through her skull and she gasped, reaching to steady herself against the wall. The room spun as borrowed memories crowded in once more. Her weary mind grasped for the peace she’d achieved hours earlier, but it slipped through shaking fingers. The empty void pressed against her, drowning her in its deafening silence.  
She couldn’t stay here. Not this close to him. Not tonight.

 


	4. Chapter 4

_Pale eyes open wide in pain as they focus on the crumpled body. A young form. Her padawan._   
_He’d felled the boy first. An easy kill. Insignificant, really. But not to her. A moment of distraction was all he needed. The slightest touch of hesitation, and he struck._   
_His hand finds her throat, twisting her backwards, her arms frozen in place. Dark power ripples down his forearm, sizzling hot against her cool skin. He smiles._   
_Another victory. Another pawn. Another lofty Jedi ready to be made over into darkness._

_His prey vary in size and strength and each reacts differently to his power, choosing various emotions to mask the sting of defeat. But their eyes are always the same. The eyes never lie._   
_**Fear.**  Always fear. _   
_The woman meets his triumphant gaze, pale eyes squinting slowly as they hold his attention._   
_Pain. Grief. Sorrow._   
_**Peace.**  _   
_He twists forward, grip tightening in confusion._   
_A soft voice. Hesitant. Gasping for air._   
_“You use it like a weapon, yet it’s so much more.”_   
_Harsh queries escape his lips, even as he knows he should not listen._   
_“I can feel it within you, assassin. Faint, weak, longing to appear. You can know its forgiveness and power if you only ask.”_   
_Anger rises. He would never become like her. He could never be the one thing he hated._   
_“They’ll find it. They’ll sense it, if they haven’t already. What will happen when you outlive your usefulness? They crave darkness. What will they do to you when they realize you can wield the force?”_   
_Memories spark. Rumors of disappearances. Hushed whispers. Weak explanations._   
_NO! His hands shake as rage burns in his throat._   
_She lies to save herself. The Jedi are weak. Snivelling cowards who twist the truth, hiding behind platitudes and promises as those beneath them die. Their extravagant piety and compassion mask the true arrogance beneath their pristine surface. He would not succumb to her poisonous words._

_A scream breaks his reverie. Low and guttural. Barely human. The fragile jaw clenches beneath his grip.  The woman shakes in agony. Her face pales, darkening circles stain the skin under her eyes._   
_Red energy dances along his hands, singeing her skin as it burns its way across her neck. He reaches out with his mind, searching, seeking every pressure point, each tiny crack in her soul, and focusing his rage into them._   
_He relaxes his shoulders, striving for the usual calm focus, but her words echo around him, shattering his concentration._   
_He grimaces in satisfaction as life drains from her eyes, conversion the last thing on his mind._   
_This one will die._

_Light flickers, fighting back, pressing against the darkness. Her hand shifts, straining towards him._   
_He redoubles his efforts, eager for victory._   
_The hand stills, frozen in pain, then reaches out.  A single touch. A warm palm._

_Heat. Light._   
**_Love._ **   
_He is everything. She is nothing._   
_The world spins around him, frantic in its newness._   
_Pain. Sorrow. Happiness. Life._   
_Everything connects. A single thread made of a thousand strands._   
_His hands flex and the future ripples. He causes pain, and the universe withers. The pieces fall into place. His mind soars, straining against a dark cage._   
_Rage bubbles underneath the surface, its black poison splashing onto the white canvas._   
_She smiles. Her blue eyes glow._   
_**Peace.**  _   
_His hands clench again, straining to extinguish the light._   
_Anger. Understanding. Hate._   
_A sharp regret pierces his soul as her body falls._   
**_Love._ **   
_She is everything. He is nothing._

 

* * *

 

Atton woke with a jolt.  
He lay on his side, knees twisted into a fetal position. Something solid pressed against his back.  _The wall_ , he realized in confusion. He’d fallen asleep on the floor of the Exile’s room, unable to drag himself to the nearby bed.  
Rolling forward, he braced himself, slowly shifting onto his knees. A muttered oath escaped his lips as sharp pain rippled across his spine.  
Pale sunlight streamed through the window. It was still early. Last night’s decision seemed so foolishly noble in the clarity of daylight. Death had seemed so simple. Wait for the exile to return, then beg for a noble end. A sacrifice that could only begin to repay his debt.  
Shame burrowed into Atton’s gut as he realized his cowardice. Death would be a sweet release, a light sentence to assuage his guilt. The memory-laden dream crept forward, threatening to consume his thoughts. She would cast him off. She should. It was a punishment befitting of the crime. Forced to wander his own path, cut off from the one person he needed. The one person he loved. And yet, the harsh light of morning revealed his true identity. He would have the audacity to beg for forgiveness. He knew this. He lacked the courage to bear either sentence. He would throw himself on her mercy.  
_The Disciple is more worthy of her love._ Atton forced this bitter thought from his mind. He wouldn’t dwell on such things. The Jedi training failed him now, his mind heavy as he struggled to reach out. Peace seemed a shattered illusion. His only consolation, albeit shallow, was that the rest of their companions remained on the Ebon Hawk. Even Kreia, who’d accompanied them ashore, was surprisingly absent.  _Probably skulking around somewhere_ , he thought bitterly,  _but at least she isn’t here to witness this humiliation._ The old witch had known his secret ever since they’d been imprisoned in that hidden base on Telos. How she’d chuckled in amusement, delighted to have uncovered such a terrible sin.  
At least now he’d be free of her grasping hold on him.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

The Disciple shook his head disapprovingly as he strode through the maddening crowds. This planet reeked of crime. Even the small tendrils of the Force he could grasp were stained with despair, drowning in a sea of voices. The place gave him a headache. The sooner they left, the sooner his mind would be at peace.  
His anxious thoughts returned to the Exile. _His Exile._ Her appearance at the Ebon Hawk late last night had seemed no cause for alarm to the rest of the group, who accepted her explanation as she attributed her disheveled manner and bloodshot eyes to exhaustion. But he could sense her torment, both then and during the sleepless night that followed. Something had happened that evening, something that shook her to the core.

The ramshackle building he sought rose up before him, and he wondered, yet again, why Meetra had returned to the ship alone. These apartments resided deep in the heart of the city, close to the people and places they’d come here to find. Renting them during their stay here had saved time, eliminating an hour’s walk back to the Ebon Hawk each evening. A weary person would have stayed here last night, unless there was a reason not to. But if the apartment was compromised or dangerous, all three of his companions should have returned, and he wouldn’t be hiking through the squalor to deliver a message.  
Mical pondered the occupant in the room beyond, the man he’d been sent to find. He didn’t like Atton. It was really that simple. He didn’t trust him. The smuggler talked a lot, but never quite spoke his mind, not truly. Sarcasm and wit held little allure for the Disciple, and lies even less, yet Atton seemed to have an excess of all three.

A nameplate with the correct room number was simple to find, and the Disciple knocked gingerly on the grime-covered door. Thumps and groans echoed through paper-thin walls. The door flew open, squeaking loudly in the almost empty hallway.  
Atton stood in the doorway, breathing heavily. A sickly pallor and dark shadows implied little sleep. Red-rimmed eyes closed in disappointment at seeing his visitor, and Atton slumped against the door frame, “what do _you_ want?”  
_Was the man sick? Hungover? If he’d gotten drunk and tried something…  
_ “Your communicator is turned off. The Exile asked me to deliver a message.”  
“Where is she?”  
“She returned to the Ebon Hawk last night. She requests that you return as well. It is time to continue our journey.”  
The other man crossed his arms, a familiar steely glint flashing in his eyes, “why’d she send _you?”  
_ “Perhaps because I was the only one who questioned why she returned last night without you.”  
“Oh yeah? Of course you did. Always poking your nose in, aren’t you?”  
Mical steeled his jaw, drawing a quick breath before replying. Sarcastic jabs from an uneducated criminal had no control over his emotions. He refused to let them.  
“Did something happen last night?”  
“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”  
“It becomes my business when something hurts her. I won’t let that happen.”  
“No!” Atton’s hands clenched into fists, “ _I_ protect her. Do you hear me? _I_ do.” A finger stabbed towards his chest, and Mical stepped back at the force of it. “I don’t care that you two have got your little study group with the old witch. Or that you’ve got an obvious crush on her. It’s _my_ job to take care of her, not yours!”  
Silence stretched in the aftermath of the outburst. Both men glared at each other, willing the other to make the first physical move.  
The Disciple finally wrinkled his nose in disgust. _Very well, he would choose to be the bigger man...again._ He turned away, tossing one last barb over his shoulder.  
“Perhaps your obsessive need to be her sole protector was the very reason I questioned her unaccompanied return.”  
A low growl answered him, and he smiled proudly to himself as he walked away, until a sudden thought slowed his steps. He turned to the door once more.  
“One other thing. She said something else, and it doesn’t make any sense. She said, ‘ask him to please play pazaak’. Does that mean anything to you?”  
Atton’s face paled, the fight draining from his eyes. His hand grasped his stomach as if he’d just endured a physical blow.   
“Tell her I understand.”  
The battered door swung shut, leaving Mical as hopelessly confused as ever.


	6. Chapter 6

Atton tripped on the edge of the ramp, stumbling against the wall before catching himself awkwardly with his left forearm. _Dang-blasted ship, why’d they make it so steep?_ The dark interior of the Ebon Hawk loomed ahead, and he straightened, forcing himself to place one foot in front of the other. The last few hours had proven a fine distraction, but all-in-all may not have been his wisest choice.  
“The General is looking for you.”  
Two Bao-Durs stood at the entrance to the garage and Atton blinked rapidly, forcing the images to coalesce. The little sphere floated near, circling his head and setting the room spinning. He swatted at the Zabrak’s mechanical pet, sending it zipping away.  
“I’m here aren’t I?” he growled angrily, reaching the top of the ramp and pushing past the engineer. “We spend days here, like we have all the time in the world, and now everyone’s in such a damn hurry to leave!”  
Bao-Dur’s nose crinkled slightly, “have you been drinking?”  
Atton ignored the question.

Silence welcomed him as he entered the cockpit and tossed his bag into the secondary chair. Settling down in front of the familiar controls, he closed his eyes and leaned back against the soft leather.  
He knew he’d messed up. Making Surik wait was a bad idea and he was damn lucky she hadn’t left without him.  
His noble plans of humbly asking for forgiveness had vanished with the Disciple’s parting words. The snobbish librarian may not have understood them, but he did. She was done with him. Whatever friendship or, dare he say, affection she’d held for him was gone. For months she'd begged him to let her in, to tell her his secrets. Well, he’d finally worked up the courage. He’d ripped out his soul, placed it in her hands, and waited for judgement.  
Her ruling was perfectly clear. He wasn't good enough.  
The reality of her choice didn't surprise him. He knew he could never measure up to the shiny perfection of her other companions. Even so, the stark reality burned deep in his core, tearing through his practiced facade of arrogance and insolence till he had nothing left. Those alabaster masks were the truths and tenets he’d built his life upon, a mantle he drew tightly around his shoulders; but she’d consumed them all, leaving him empty. Only his bitterness remained.  
Or perhaps that was all his life had ever been.  
Blurry snapshots from the afternoon raced through his mind. Most of it was fuzzy, especially after he’d reached the _Krill-Fei Quar,_ but he remembered enough. Three clear memories stuck out amid the haze: losing a lot of credits over a bad hand, the strongest whiskey he’d ever tasted, and a pair of very beautiful twi’leks who’d definitely been naked later on.  
He cringed. The distraction he'd craved seemed hollow now, and he realized his appetite for such things had all but disappeared since he’d met _her_. She'd filled his every waking thought, just as the light she’d shared filled his soul. But this realization came much too late. Booze and women in bars, that was where he belonged. Not in some temple learning about universal peace.  
Even if it was, forgiveness didn't apply to him or what he'd done, that much was clear.  
He'd fucked it up.

Soft footsteps echoed in the hall behind him, and he steeled himself, focusing intently on the back of his eyelids. Ever dutiful to her command, numbers cycled through his head, an instinct he’d honed over a lifetime of practice. He was tempted to empty his mind, allowing her subconscious to reach beyond his protective walls again, but he knew he couldn’t. No amount of anger could compel him to hurt her like that again.  
“You’re back,” the words were soft and calm, but after months of practice Atton could plainly hear the frustration layered under the surface.   
“Guess so.”  
“Would you like to tell me what crucial thing you had to attend to, after I clearly requested you return to the ship?”  
Atton’s face flushed as he remembered how that request had been delivered and Mical’s smug expression. The man had pretended ignorance, but she'd probably told him everything. He could picture the son-of-a-bitch comforting her, holding her while she spilled her tale of woe. He’d been waiting for this opportunity, waiting for Atton to mess up, waiting for the perfect moment. And she went right along with it. All her talk of forgiveness and making things right with the council, yet she cast him aside like a broken toy. _Typical._ He’d let his guard down, let a Jedi infect his mind, even strove to become one himself. It was too late for that now, but he’d be damned if he let her win this argument. His hands clenched involuntarily and he spun the chair around.  
“You mean after your lapdog delivered your little message,” he rolled his eyes, “you couldn't tell me yourself? Too busy with your oh-so-important mission to save the world? Well, don’t worry, I understood you loud and clear.”  
Meetra’s nose wrinkled and she took a step forward, “are you drunk?”  
“Don’t be so high and mighty, I can still fly your precious ship. That's all you care about, right?”  
“You know that’s not what I’m upset about. I was worried about you! You disappeared for twelve hours!”  
“I can take care of myself, thank you very much. I’ve been doing it my whole blasted life. I don’t need a do-good Jedi to rescue me,” he spat the word with as much vehemence as he could muster.  
“Rescue you? What is that supposed to mean? What is wrong with you!”  
“Wrong with me? There’s nothing wrong with me! I’m not ashamed of who I am, and if that’s not good enough for you then I’ll just let myself out right here.”  
“Hold on just a minute, why are are angry with me? I haven’t done a single thing to deserve this!”  
“I may have done horrible things during the war, _Exile_ , but at least I know who I am and what I’ve done. I don’t walk around trying to justify my actions or spin them into good deeds.”  
The color drained from her face and Atton knew he’d hit a nerve. She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly before continuing, her voice tight, “I wasn’t aware I owed you an account for every decision I make.”  
“Oh, no. You’re far too important to explain yourself. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were one of those blasted council members you're so hung up over.”  
Her eyes widened, hurt glowing behind the calm mask. Atton clenched his fists, trying to stop the torrent of words tumbling from his lips, but the anger was too strong.  
“You really want to know where I was? You want me to tell you? I can do a hell of a lot better than that.”  
Sultry images swirled around the numbers occupying his head, overwhelming the monotony. Memory after memory surged to the forefront of his mind.  _Whiskey and smoke. Flesh and curves. Clouded thought and lascivious pleasure._  
Meetra’s eyes snapped shut as her face flushed crimson.  
“Stop. Please.”  
Atton turned away, shame burning deep in his soul. A heavy weariness overwhelmed him, and he purged his mind. “I’m sorry. Really, I didn’t...I...just tell me where you need to go next, ok? I'll get us there.”  
He could feel the angry resolve evaporating with the last of his willpower, but for once he didn't care. Her anguished expression haunted him. He had nothing left to give. His life had been reduced to an empty shell, but whatever remained was hers to command or destroy as she saw fit.  
He would never hurt her again.

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

Mira narrowed her eyes as she leaned against the cockpit wall. Three minutes. That's how long she's been standing there, and he still hadn't noticed. _Yeah, something was definitely up._  
“Still with us, hotshot?”  
The startled twitch and sharp glare were satisfying, but not as much as they would have been if his eyes weren't so glazed.  
“Hey, you ok?”  
“I'm fine. Go away.”  
“No need to be rude,” she dropped into the second chair and crossed her legs, tapping her foot against the console, "it was just a question.”  
“As much as I enjoy you sneaking up on me, which is getting really old, by the way, I'm not in the mood for a chat, ok?”  
“Relax, I'm just bored. This ship is way too enclosed for this many people, and you are slightly better company than the librarian.”  
“Go find the blind chick, I'm sure you can find something in common.”  
“What, like how many different ways we know how to track and kill a man?”  
“Sure.”  
“It’s Visas, by the way, you should learn it - I don't know if she'll appreciate the nickname.”  
“Fine.”  
“Wow, really talkative tonight. Aren't you a-”  
Atton sprang to his feet, bracing himself against the console with clenched fists, “get the fuck out, please!”  
“Whoa, asshole, I'm just trying to be nice. I thought maybe we could be friends or something. You know, tell each other secrets, braid each other’s hair - that's a thing, right?”  
He sighed, his shoulders sagging as he ran a hand over his face. “You'll have to find someone else, I'm le-” the words cut off, and Atton’s jaw twitched as he sank back into the seat, “it's just best not to have friends, kid.”  
Mira’s eyes narrowed, “what were you about to say?”  
“Nothing, I'm just tired. Need some sleep.”  
“Bullshit,” she studied his face for a moment. “You’re leaving, aren't you? That's what you were about to say.”  
His silence spoke volumes.  
“Found something better to do than save the world?”  
“Look, it's just something I need to do, ok?”  
“Fine,” she spit the word out with as much vehemence as possible, so there'd be no confusion as to her opinion on the matter.  
“Don’t tell...anyone. Please.”  
“Anyone in particular?”  
He squinted at her, and for a moment she thought she saw a familiar spark, but it was gone in an instant.  
Mira stood up, shaking her head in disgust as she turned to the door.  
“Well, I think it's bull,” she tossed over her shoulder, “I think you're running from something, and I think you're a coward.”  
The fact that he didn't respond was worrying.

 

* * *

 

Meetra crept out of her quarters, moving on the balls of her feet. She didn’t need to skulk around her own ship, but it felt natural after sequestering herself in her room for three days. The Ebon hawk hummed, soothing in its steady vibrations. Most of her crew would be asleep which afforded her the perfect opportunity to haunt the ship in peace.  
She’d noticed a steady decrease in morale in the last few days. Each hour growing darker than the last. She finally had to admit the truth she’d laughed away. Her attitude and desires directly impacted the rest of the crew. There was a bond between them. Perhaps Kreia was right, maybe they didn’t serve out of love or loyalty, maybe they had no choice. The thought sickened her.  
Pale lights gleamed from the floorboards, the only illumination automated during the sleep cycle. A low hum reverberated in the hallway.  
Surik paused, listening for voices. The only crew-member she expected to be awake was the last person she intended to visit.  
Several quiet thumps pulled her from her reverie, and she turned, searching for the source. After a moment of silence, a sharp clang preceded a low curse. _Cargo hold._ She set off down the hallway.  
An armor-less Mandalore sat at a makeshift bench cleaning his gear. A foot taller and built like a tank, it was easy to see how the mandalorian had risen to such a high status. Thick muscled hands grasped a soft cloth, working it into the little grooves along his breastplate. Tiny crisscrossed scars laced his fingers, a reminder that those hands could extinguish a life solely by their own power. The intimidating mercenary rarely removed his helmet, let alone armor, and Meetra leaned against the doorframe, appreciating the sheer strength of her companion.  
“You gotta pay for the goods before you admire them.”  
She chuckled at the sarcastic growl, crossing the threshold and throwing herself down onto a crate.  
“I was just shocked by how small and un-intimidating you look without all that armor to protect you.”  
“Heh. At least I rely on something safer than your psychic voodoo mind powers.”  
“But can you move that box across the room without touching it?”  
“Give me a sturdy energy-shield and a blaster-rifle and I won’t need to move any damn boxes.”  
“Fair enough,” she grinned. Their light-hearted argument ended the same way every time, but she found comfort in the routine.  
“You ever been there before?”  
“Korriban?” Mandalore shrugged, “yeah. But you have a bigger problem to worry about before we get there.”  
Meetra groaned, “what broke now?”  
“I’d say our pilot looks a little worn.”  
“Atton? I'm sure he is just fine.”  
The mandalorian shot her a tight look before wiping his hands on the grease-stained cloth. “You two have got to be the stupidest smart people I've ever met,” he tossed the chestpiece onto the workbench and reached for a boot. “The boy hasn’t spoken a damn word in the last three days - slinking around like a whipped puppy. Which you would know if you'd ever left your room. He's barely moved his ass from that chair. With all that sitting, I'd be worried about his balls, but I figure you must be keeping those in your back pocket.”  
Meetra grimaced, suddenly quite uncomfortable at the direction the conversation was going, “I've been busy.”  
“Oh, come off it. We all know something went down between you two. Your moping has turned this ship into a damn rain cloud. I think I even heard the little droid crying the other day.”  
She tried to respond again, but he held his hand up.  
“I don't care what happened - all I'm saying is fix your damn mess, and do it soon. No one on this ship is mentally ready to fight, and we’re about to step out onto fucking sith ground.”


	8. Chapter 8

“We don't know what we’re going to find, so everyone stay alert. Mira and Mical will come with me. Whoever’s there will know we’re coming, so we move as soon as the ship lands. Any questions?”  
Meetra glanced around the room, taking in the varied expressions. Visas’ mouth twisted in frustration, Mical’s eyes were open in excited anticipation, Atton stared at the floor in seeming boredom, Mandalore was shaking his head slightly, and Mira kept glancing between Atton and Meetra - her expression unreadable.  
“...connection,” Kreia was speaking, and Meetra struggled to focus, “and I will offer any assistance I can. Be careful, Exile, I believe there is much still to be learned.”  
“I will, thank you, Kreia. Mira, Mical, meet me at the ramp when you’re ready.”

The group dispersed, and Mira caught her arm on the way past.  
“Hey, what's going on?”  
“With what?”  
“Me and Mical? Why isn't Atton going with you?”  
“I picked who I thought would best serve the needs of this situation.”  
“You _always_ take Atton with you.”  
Meetra narrowed her eyes, smiling slightly to hide her annoyance, “that is an exaggeration.”  
“No, it's really not. Besides, he's the best fighter of all of us when it comes to this Force stuff, I'm just barely getting good at it, and Mical is great, but he's just not a natural.”  
“Mira-”  
“You need to take this seriously. I don't know what he did, I'm sure it was his fault, but please talk to him. Something's up.”  
“Why is everyone suddenly so interested in my personal life! It’s none of anyone’s damn business what I-” Meetra stopped, shocked at her own outburst. “I’m sorry, I don’t-”  
“Whatever,” Mira smiled tightly as she turned away, “I better get ready.”

 

Meetra paused in the doorway to her quarters, a hand pressing against the ache in her forehead. _What in the hell was wrong with her?_ She felt...worn, wrung out. The weight of the world seemed firmly welded to her shoulders, and she felt like she was buckling under the burden.  
She’d been a great general. That wasn’t boasting, it was simply fact. Following Revan may have been a moral error in judgement, _she still wasn’t sure_ , but it was only in battle that she’d finally felt free, finally felt like she was making a difference. She’d thrived in the Force, drawing it around her like a mantle, entrenching herself so deep in its core that she ceased to exist as anything but a conduit for its power.  
But then, that peace had been stripped from her, torn from her grasp by the cowards that condemned her. Punished by their arrogance and exiled from her home, her years wandering had brought their own form of peace, but it was only now, with a newly re-formed connection to the Force, that she saw that peace for what it was. A placebo, something to cling to in the darkness. But those years clung to her still, they’d chipped away at her soul, forming her into a new person. One that was stronger, yet more fragile. Powerful, but one step away from shattering.  
And now she stood at the edge of a new darkness, one more powerful and hungry than the first. The galaxy hung in the balance, fragile in the wake of war, and she was being brought to her knees by a single person. An arrogant, selfish, murderer that had entered her life and refused to leave. He’d become a tether to reality, a single thread binding her to her sanity - pulling her back when the vast unknown threatened to consume her. No longer was she capable of existing solely as a tool for the Force. She had found her soul in her wandering, the emptiness forcing her to examine who she really was. And now that she’d regained her connection, she found herself at war, pulled between who she had been and who she was now. Before, her empathy had driven her to protect, but she’d never grown attached to those she helped. Even her connection with Revan had been out of respect and belief that she was right, not out of a deep kinship - though that had grown as she served.

She didn’t want this new reality. She wished she could empty herself as she did before, living solely as a weapon, a channel, a teacher, whatever was needed - holding herself aloof. But she knew that she couldn’t. Her crew...no, her friends, for that is what they were, were apart of her now.  
One of them, most of all.  
And that shook her to her core.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Dust swirled as they stepped out onto the packed earth of Korriban. The air around the Valley of the Dark Lords was cold, seeping into Mira’s bones and settling a chill deep between her shoulderblades. The place was so...empty, so different from Nar Shaddaa that the contrast was almost painful.  
The exile had taught her how to truly hear her surrounding, how to strip away the outward noise - and she attempted that here, breathing deeply as she centered herself in the force. Stretching out, she cleared her mind, releasing the hold she had over her consciousness. As her surroundings faded away, a warm calm washed over her, still startling in its newness, and with it came the feeling of rightness, of belonging. This path she’d chosen was unlike anything she’d ever known, deeply fulfilling after a life of painful chaos. She owed the exile more than she could ever repay. If they’d never met, she’d probably have ended up another nameless corpse on the disease ridden streets of-  
Mira shook her head ruefully, dragging her thoughts back to the task at hand. Such morbid speculation served only as a distraction. Closing her eyes, she let her thoughts fall away again. The silence pressed against her, cut only by the soft tread of boots picking across the sand and the occasional whistle of the wind. She pushed past the footfalls, letting the silence fill her mind, falling into it. Deeper...deeper...until... _there -_ a hushed whisper, hypnotic in its cadence, then a second whisper, twisting around the first to form a jagged harmony. The words were strange and distant, but she could feel their hatred - accusing her, laughing at her. Voice after voice joined in, swirling around her, biting and clawing at her soul. Memories swelled to the surface, things she’d pushed from her mind years ago. Mira felt her knees hit the packed earth, felt her hands clawing at her ears, desperate to block out the noise. They were going to die. All of them. The light side wasn’t strong enough, it would never be strong enough.

 

* * *

  
Mical smiled in nervous excitement as he followed Meetra along the worn path. The tombs of the Dark Lords towered over them, deliciously tempting in their solemn state, and for the tenth time he regretted they had so little time. He could only imagine the knowledge they’d gain from studying just one of these crypts, and they were simply strolling right by them. _Ah, well,_ their mission came first. Besides, the exile had no interest in such things. She had more pressing matters to attend to, and it was his job to make sure _her_ interests were put ahead of everything else. What they were doing was extremely important, something the rest of their group seemed to forget.  
Meetra paused ahead of him, interrupting his train of thought as she turned to gaze behind them. She was so beautiful. Her blue eyes sparkled with such intensity, a gaze that often left him speechless, which was a rarity for him. The sharp brow jerked suddenly, twisting downward in concern and he turned, following her gaze. Mira followed about ten steps behind, her eyes closed, forehead creased in concentration. Now _there_ was a woman that annoyed him, almost purposefully, it seemed, at times. The bounty hunter’s acerbic sense of humor had worn thin rather quickly, and he’d spent the last few days occupying any room that happened to be the farthest from her. Really, he didn’t know why Surik had welcomed her aboard in the first place.  
Meetra turned forward again, her concern evidently satisfied, and as he trailed two steps behind, Mical sighed. He didn’t understand the exile’s penchant for picking up strays. The ship had become crowded, messy, their meetings jumbled and noisy. As he’d studied them, he’d begun to understand that each lost soul they found needed something of her, latched onto her to extend their pathetic need for purpose; in a dark time when she needed to be surrounded by strength, she’d made her home among leeches. She already looked worn, tired, and ever since they’d left Nar Shaddaa, she’d been uncharacteristically solemn, avoiding everyone as best as she could. Even him. _How long can she go on like this? How long can she last before their selfishness drains her soul dry?_ Anger burned, cramping and churning his stomach to an agonizing fire. _They don’t deserve her. None of them do. They’ve done nothing to merit her attention, or a place at her side._ Only _he_ had contributed to their mission, only _he_ had earned his place here. His fingers itched against the cold hilt in his palm. She would understand his actions, forgive them even. She _had_ to know they were dangerous to the cause, that it was her misplaced compassion that stayed her hand.  
It would be so easy to rid her of these parasites...starting with the abrasive, mocking killer that trailed behind them.

 

* * *

  
Meetra sighed, tipping her chin up to stretch a kink out of her neck. The silence that pressed against her felt foreign and unnerving, and she listened for the soft footfalls behind her, grateful that she wasn’t alone. This valley had once been the 'crowning jewel' of the sith, and even now she could feel the darkness stirring underneath her feet, just under the surface, desperate to escape, desperate to consume her. She shivered, a cold chill crawling up her spine. The footsteps behind her were strangely foreign to her ears, recognizable as her companions, but not comforting. Mira had been right. She’d grown accustomed to having him with her, watching her back. They’d become a team, their movements mirroring the other in an unspoken dance. His sudden absence was unnerving at best, and distracting at worst. She needed to put this aside, her thoughts were dangerously clouded for such surroundings.  
The sudden ignition of a lightsaber blade snagged her attention, jolting her back into the present, and she spun, her own blade already in her hand as she readied herself to meet their foe. The scene before her slowed as the Force quickened her mind, balancing the confusion and distraction that occupied her thoughts. Mira knelt unseeing on the ground, hands pressed to her ears, her mouth open in a silent scream. Fear twisted her face into a harsh mask of anguish, unaware of the azure blade arcing towards her. In the brief, precious seconds granted by her increased speed, Meetra shifted her attention to Mical, taking in the white knuckles clenched around the hilt, the unabashed anger burning in his eyes and tensing his jaw. The scene didn’t fit with anything she knew and her mind rebelled against it, but her instincts overrode logic - forcing her empty palm towards her companion and hurling him into the jagged rocks.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Atton breathed deeply, clenching and unclenching his fingers in an effort to loosen the tension radiating across his entire body. The old hag’s ability to terrify him was as humiliating as it was confusing. What was her game? She’d made her disdain of him very clear, multiple times, so why did she want him here helping the Exile? Everyone else on this ship seemed to belong, no matter how annoying or odd they were, but she, Kreia - _if that really was her name_ \- had a different motive. She had to. The way she hovered, and admonished, and spoke with both annoyance and pride when addressing Meetra, even if she was criticizing her decisions. The old bat was crazy. And dangerous.

He shook himself, remembering where he was as the door in front of him came back into focus. There was no need to worry about that now. He needed to say what he’d come to say. She wouldn’t like it, in fact he was sure she’d be livid, but it didn’t matter anymore. She was powerless.  
The light on the door panel flashed from red to green as he depressed a button and the cold metal slid sideways.

Kreia knelt in the empty room, eyes closed, spine straight. She didn’t turn as the door opened, and Atton couldn’t tell if this was a good sign or bad.  
“It has taken you far longer to approach me than I anticipated.” The voice was cold, deliberate.  
“You know why I’ve come?” He prided himself on the sarcastic tone. He almost sounded normal.  
“I know your mind better than you know it yourself. I’ve anticipated every conceivable outcome, down to the last foolish word that passes your lips.”  
“Oh, yeah?!” Anger swirled up inside, burning hot against the ice that curled around his soul. “You don’t know me. Sure, you’ve managed to crawl inside my head a few times, but you’re never doing it again. Whatever game you think you’re playing? It ends right here.”  
Kreia’s eyes flashed open, but not in anger. A gentle amusement played across her face and she relaxed her shoulders, folding her hands in her lap.  
“Say what you’ve come to say, murderer, you have my full attention.”  
“I...I told her.”  
“Indeed.”  
“Yeah, I told her everything.”  
“And how did she react?”  
“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you don’t have anything to hold over my head anymore. You and me? We’re done.”  
“And your plan now is what? You are leaving?”  
“Uh...yeah,” Atton winced at the sullen edge in his voice, “I’ve been here too long.”  
“And your training? You will walk away from it so easily?”  
He gritted his teeth, pushing down the doubts that rushed to the surface, "that...was a mistake. Shouldn’t have gotten mixed up in this mess in the first place.”  
“Your path was destined to merge with ours. It was unavoidable.”  
“Whatever. Our _“paths”_ are going separate ways now, and you’re not going to stop me.”  
“Foolish boy, you think you’ve won?”  
“Yeah, I think I have, and you know what-” he smirked as a reckless bravado welled up inside. For the first time in months he was back in control. He could walk away, forget about everything, maybe even go back to Nar Shaddaa. Go back to being untouchable. “-your threats, your machinations, every little glance you thought was subtle or secret - I’m going to make sure she knows about it before I leave. She’s going to know _everything._ You think your little obsession is gonna look at you the same after she finds out? I don’t even care that you’ll probably come after me when she kicks you off this ship, it’ll be worth it.”

A soft laugh rippled in the air, hanging between them for a moment as they stared at each other in silence - one face twisted in triumphant anticipation, the other a mask of calm confidence.  
“Your arrogance has caused you to forget one thing, child. _I own you_. I own everyone on this ship. My power is far greater than any you’ll ever reach, no matter how far you grasp.” Kreia stood slowly, her voice a deadly whisper, “you think my reaching into your mind was painful? Forced to relive your terrible deeds as I searched? That was but a taste.”

A surge of rage swelled within him, a sudden, terrifying, pulsing under his chest. The room spun. He slammed a hand against the doorframe to steady himself, but the room wasn’t actually spinning - his vision was blurring, flexing, burning hot. The muscles in his forearms tightened painfully, and he felt his hands clench tightly against the metal. The voice continued, distorted and vague like she was calling down to him from the top of a long tunnel.  
“Your hands are shaking. Can you taste that anger? Can you feel the rush as it burns in your soul? The last time you felt this hunger, you were a fool, yes, but a fool with a purpose. And you were _good_ at that task. You were a weapon, wielded by those stronger than you could ever be. I can see the rage in your eyes. Why do you cringe away from it? You used to control it, now it controls you.”  
His vision was beginning to darken, a blood-red haze buzzing in the corners of his mind. He wanted to stretch his hands out and tear the smirk from her face, shatter her brittle bones with his bare hands. But he couldn’t. His mind screamed at him, dragging his hands back. He’d changed! This isn’t who he was anymore, was it? But it was! Everything the Jedi had ever taught was a lie. They _all_ lied. He’d known it then, how could he have forgotten that? They were only good for one thing. He’d start with this one. He wanted to break her, crawl into her head and make her taste the fear she’d shown him.  
She was still talking, but the sound had faded away. Images flashed through his mind, dizzying in their speed. Blond hair, stained with blood, lightning dancing against her skin as sad eyes peer into his soul. _Did I die for nothing?_ she seemed to say, though her lips never moved. He could feel his fingers grazing his weapon, yearning to ignite the blade, but those pale eyes burned colder, angry, furious with his choice.

“No-” he groaned as the room crystallized around him. The old woman had stopped talking. The muscles in his shoulders burned, screaming in agony as his mind warred within, desperate to hold them back. No, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. But his hands were moving again. Metal scraped against leather, then a soft hiss broke the silence, sending shivers down his spine. She was smiling, the twisted madness etched into her face illuminated in the brilliant glow of his blade.  
“That’s...disappointing, I expected more of a fight.”

In a split second the crushing pressure against his brain lifted, a pressure he hadn’t even noticed until it was gone. His remaining strength drained out of him and he fell heavily to his knees, the lightsaber slipping out of his grasp. It rolled across the floor, clattering loudly against the cold surface until it came to rest against her scuffed boot.  
“You may choose, assassin, which life you’d rather live. You were rather skilled at hunting Jedi, are you sure you don’t want to retrace that path?”  
“No.” His voice was barely more than a whisper. He wanted to stand, to face her defiantly, but he had nothing more to give.  
“Are you sure? It seems such a waste of potential-”  
“No, please!”  
“Very well, then let me make myself very clear. It would be a _terrible_ shame if you lost control like that again, even worse if that should happen while you were with the Exile. If you saw her while you were overcome by that hunger, saw her embodying everything you hate, who knows what you might be driven to do.”  
“No!”  
“What? You think you’d be able to resist?”  
“I…” he winced, spitting the words between clenched teeth, “I would. I’d fight it. I wouldn’t hurt her.”  
Another short laugh.  
“You would try, and you would fail. And then she’d be forced to put you down, heartbroken by the tragic betrayal of such a dear friend.”  
He closed his eyes, unable to protest anymore. He knew she was right.  
“I am glad you’ve seen reason, almost as glad as the Exile will be to know that you plan to stay at her side till this is completed.”  
He hadn't noticed she’d crossed the room until the hem of her robes brushed against the hand he braced against the floor.  
“You will remember none of this conversation, except what you did, what you _wished_ to do. And you will remember the only way to keep those terrifying truths at bay is to stay with her till the end.”  
The words tugged at his mind, but couldn’t rearrange themselves in a way that made sense. His last thought as a cold hand grasped the back of his skull and his vision began to fade, was that he couldn’t break like that again, not if he was going to keep her safe.


	11. Chapter 11

“What the hell happened?” Meetra glanced at her mentor in frustration before turning back to study the bed.  
Michal lay in the dark room before them, eyes closed, chest barely lifting with each breath. Faint blue lights flickered steadily as the medical bay’s impressive tech monitored every available life sign, adjusting its readout and reaction after each pulse.  
“One moment we’re walking towards the academy, the next…” the words trailed off as she remembered the darkness in her friend’s eyes as she threw him away from their companion.  
Kreia shifted slightly, a hint of smugness replacing her normal aura of mild disinterest. “The darkness permeating that world is as strong as ever. It feeds off the dead, the souls, both innocent and not, that happened to fall upon its soil. When it has scavenged what it can from the dead, it turns to the living. Testing them, luring them into its trap. It seems the bookkeeper was not up to this task. A humiliating failure which, though dangerous, was not surprising.”  
Meetra shook her head slowly, “I should have gone by myself. They’ve all grown so quickly in such a short amount of time - I forget, sometimes, that I have decades of experience to fall back on that they don’t.”  
“You will find, as I have said before, that the rapid growth of your...” Kreia’s lips twisted into a sneer as she spat the word out, “...students, has more to do with their connection to you than any personal-” the old woman paused, seeming to notice the frustrated grimace on the Exile’s face, and smiled coldly. “Very well, I will not bring up past conversations.”  
“Thank you, Kreia.” Meetra sighed, turning away from the bed again, “I trust he will recover?”  
“His body has been healed, it is simply resting until his mind is clear again.”  
“Mira is sleeping as well. I don’t know if she will be able to accompany me again-”  
“No, I should think not. You must not wait for her. Our time grows short on this world, our enemy approaches.”  
“You still refuse to set foot on the surface?”  
“My place is here, Exile. I shall continue to offer what aid I can.”  
“And the others?”  
“The blinded one, though loyal to you now, has a deep connection to her master. I would not put a temptation in front of her that she is not yet strong enough to bear. The Mandalorian as well, the darkness is too great for either of them.”  
“Very well, I’ll defer to your judgement.” Meetra strode towards the door, “I suppose I am left with one option.”  
The older woman smiled as she turned back to the bed, her shadowed features twisted in wry amusement, “Indeed you are, Exile.”

 

* * *

 

Meetra paused for the briefest moment before crossing the threshold of the cockpit, very aware that she hadn’t set foot in this part of the ship in days. The room’s sole occupant sat hunched over the console. His head drooped forward, as though held down by a terrible weight, and both hands were wrapped around the back of his neck. She supposed he could be asleep and considered the best way to wake him, but as she deliberated, he slowly straightened, thrusting his shoulders back as if determined to remain upright. Before she could move farther into the room, he tensed, then turned quickly as if suddenly sensing her presence. Surprise flickered in his eyes, as well as something else that she couldn’t quite place, but both disappeared in an instant, replaced by a neutral calm.  
“Exile?”  
Deep shadows stained the skin under his eyes, and the harsh lights in the cockpit played across his skin at a strange angle, giving him a gaunt, haunted look. His face bore the marks of one who’d slept little and worried much, but there was more, something that she couldn’t see with her eyes alone. Meetra stepped forward carefully, allowing her senses to push beyond her own mind, reaching out to discover the root of his pain, but something else caught her attention first.  
Thick panes of ultra-hardened glass formed the large viewport at the front of the room and through them she could clearly see the reddish landscape beyond, but the view had changed considerably in the hour since she’d returned. Gray clouds swirled in the distance, spinning and tearing around each other at top speeds. They were darkening rapidly as, beyond them, heavy winds lifted the dust and debris into tiny ominous whirlpools. This sudden storm, whether natural or not, was headed in their direction, and she had no desire to test just how quickly it could reach them.  
“Change of plans, Atton, I need another set of eyes. How quickly can you be ready?”  
“I...just need a minute.”  
Meetra tore her eyes away from the storm as the hoarseness of his voice registered. He’d turned back to the console, hiding his face, but her eyes narrowed as she saw a slight tremor shake the hand resting on the instrument panel.  
_Was Atton...afraid?_  
“You-”  
A shrill tone echoed from the display under the viewport and a light began to flash rapidly. Atton shifted quickly, reaching to mute the alert with one hand as the other flew over the controls.  
“What is it?” she asked, crossing the room in two steps and peering out the window.  
“I’m picking up something on the long-range scanners. It’s a ship, approaching at top speed.”  
“Damn it. They’re coming, just as she said. We’d better hurry.”


End file.
